


A Twisted Sort - (The Hollies Fiction)

by JustabookjunkieIneednohelp



Category: The Hollies (Band)
Genre: Derogatory Language, Drinking, F/M, Heavy BDSM, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sadism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 11:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14568180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustabookjunkieIneednohelp/pseuds/JustabookjunkieIneednohelp
Summary: *A flash of pain flitted in Lucy's eyes, her wide amber eyes contained a misty sheen to them, but she didn't look especially afraid, infact she seemed to be doused in lust, drenched in it."My house is - ""Yes."Laughing throatily, Allan's lips curled into a slow, patronising thing, "Desperate aren't you love?"*Nash teases Allan about being uptight.Allan decides to prove otherwise.Who knew a few drinks and an awkward attempt at picking chicks up could lead to Allan nurturing his darker side?Clarke, Nash and now a fiery haired girl. What could possibly go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys,
> 
> I know, i know this is a HUGE diversion, but I wrote this fic for a friend and I had to post it. I'm working on my malec one I promise. I just have exams so I'm trying to revise more.
> 
> As I've already warned (the tags) there will be violent, derogatory scenes in this fic, so if you can not stand it, do not read ahead. 
> 
> All in all: enjoy and leave comments and kudos. I'm always looking to improve, so criticism is also very helpful and highly encouraged.  
> Here we go. =)

Allan had a little much to drink. He had wanted to prove to Nash he wasn't upright, they had been friends since childhood and if any one was becoming a bore, it wasn't him. It was a wonder to all how Nash had turned into such an arse. Well actually it wasn't. Allan tried not to let it show, but Nash's "my dick is bigger than yours" attitude to all things was bloody annoying. Even on stage he had to one up everyone else, with his conventionally good looking, blond, squished rat face and his over enthusiastic voice in harmonies and his my "dad went to jail, look at my sad back story" and his fucking boisterous laugh and the perpetually mishchevious twinkle in his eyes and... his pink lips and... his mouth... stupid, bloody, mouth.  


The room emitted a golden glow, the lighting, not the alcohol; the bar Nash had led him into was rough and masculine. A fine species, the stools were a classy black, the ground winking a wooden smile, the walls were rough hewn and grey brick. Everywhere Allan looked, psychedelic paintings were strewn across the walls. A riot of coloured sharpened by the film of intoxication. People sat scattered, some dancing, some grinding, some laughing. Allan surveyed the assortment of strangers, his gaze snagging on a girl frowning profusely at another, presumably her friend, who repeatedly thrust a shot glass into her face. Allan could imagine the repartee: "Drink it, don't be such a bore Jennifer."

"Don't you offer me a drink in a pub for gods sake Lynsney!"

Chuckling, Allan eyed the quarrelling and watched as Lynsney, as he had named her, sashayed away, as if to say: do what you want. There were many girls quarrelling, raucous and loud, so this was not why he had lingered on this particular one. It was the way she carried herself at once shy and tantalising, nervous and suggestive. He didn't know such a opposing contrast could exist in a person. She crossed her pale legs, adorned with boots on the edge of the stool, causing her floral, psychedelic blue, green mod dress with hints of yellow to rise up, revealing a large fraction of her thigh. The dress clung to her skin and looked as if it would be made of something called chiffon, it gleamed with pearl white buttons down the front, collarless and gaping a little too much for the dress to be considered chaste. She had hair like copper, that of an underappreciated metal, it's unruly state could only be described as a mane. It endeared her to Allan even more. It seemed incongurous that this imperfection should make her seem perfect in his eyes. Beams of light bounced off her heart shaped mouth and the smattering of freckles that adorned her nose and cheekbones. Allan wondered where else she had freckles, he had an inexplicable urge to find them, lick them, taste them. Swinging down a large gulp, he decided. Yes, this was his lay. Adopting a lazy walk, Allan approached the girl. He would show Nash, uptight he had called him.

"I see you scared away the bad influence", he grinned. Allan knew he was not bad looking, he'd even go as far as to say he was the opposite, perhaps not dashingly so, but he was alright. His dark hair, square shoulders and callused hands from playing guitar came together quiet nicely, he'd even been told, he had "kissable lips darling, exquisitely kissable lips!"

And it seemed the exquisite lips had done their job well, for when the girl turned, she took in his dishevelled form, her mouth forming an involuntary oh, before curling into a coy, shy smile. It seemed she too knew how influential her... assets were.

"I'd rather invite bad influence than chase it away.", she smirked, the movement pronouncing her cupid bow of a mouth. She also had very exquisite lips and as she leaned further, cocking her head in faux innocence, a strand of curled hair slipped over her shoulder, whispering against the dip of her breasts. Yes, this - she would be a fun lay.

"Hmm," Allan hummed "It would certainly seem so Jennifer", he murmured eyes tracing the dip and curve of her sillohette.

"Jennifer?" She leaned back suddenly. "Are you that drunk?", she snapped. Her eyes blazed with indignation. She had eyes like whisky, amber and lined with black. Allan wanted to get drunk off them. She looked beautiful, flushed, eyes flashing, hands clenching. I want to make her mad, he thought.

"What?"

Seething she began to turn away, "Honestly, never should have come, what a waste, a bloody waste!"

"Wait!", Allan scrambled, the depth of her misunderstanding dawning on him like a splash of icy water. He snatched at her arm.

"I made it up. I mean not the name, because obviously the name exists, just -"  
"Well I saw you with your friend, mind you could be your sister, I don't assume, and you were arguing and I was drunk. Well not drunk exactly, more like tipsy really and I kind of made up a conversation you two were having and named you two. Her name's Lynsney see? It's -"

Allan screeched to a halt, the words a discordant strum on his guitar. Nice going Clarke, he thought to himself. Now she thinks you're insane. Well done, you really know how to catch the ladies don't you lad? Shuffling, he cleared his throat, letting a strained silence settle between them. Alcohol blurred the awkward edges, my arse. Couldn't a guy get a bloody break around here? Maybe Nash was right, Allan wasn't cut out for this spontaneous fun, plans were more his forte, plan's worked, plans prevented exactly this kind of situation. He wished he was in bed.

"Well that's a ridiculous story."

Allan's heart sank. One night was all he wanted. Just one -

"So ridiculous in fact, I feel inclined to believe in it's authencity."

Allan snapped his gaze to her face, scouring it for any hint of mocking. He found none.

"Lucy. Lucy Eckles" she introduced.

"Lucy," Allan echoed, "That's a rather plain name."

"Quiet the charmer aren't you? But to be fair, I happen to be a rather plain girl."

Her mischievous smile and the blatantly feverish eyes led Allan to believe otherwise. Yes, this was to be a good lay.

Allan's trepidation vanished, if the girl wasn't put off after his maddening rambling, then she would not leave tonight, except with him. Allan would make sure of it. Nash wasn't the only one who always got what he wanted, Allan knew that better than most, but tonight was his turn.

"Oh? Why do I highly doubt that Lucy darling?", Allan spoke softly, crooked smile, his hand squeezing the girl's arm, tighter than was necessary. His words elicited an unpresidented shiver up Lucy's spine, her lashes fluttering faster, her breath quicker. She licked her lips once, twice. Allan followed their journey over her soft, plump lips, now glistening under his gaze.

"I don't know what gave you that impression." she practically groaned. Although the words seemed to be simpering, almost sly, her heaving breasts and white knuckled grip on the counter diminished their playful intent. They came out urgent, higher pitched than they should have.

Laughing under his breath, Allan leant forward slowly, a predatory gleam in his eyes, smile almost malicious. 

"Caught myself a slut have I?, he whispered coolly, lips grazing her ear.

Allan remembered a conversation he had had with Nash on their way here, "You don't know what they do for me Clarke. Whores, every last one 'em." Tonight Allan wanted, wanted a taste of what the aggression he rarely let out could get him, Nash wasn't the only one who could carve out what he wanted in others, he wasn't the only one who had flashes of darker urges. Like wisps of smoke that spread their tendrils in Allan and sang a siren's song of illicit desire.

Allan was plagued by them too, the only difference was at the moment his control was a slippery thing, slick and impatient and while he normally held it at bay. Tonight he said to bloody hell to what the lads thought and wanted, what Nash thought and wanted from him.

A whimper sliced though the red haze of lust and anger. As Allan looked down, he saw his nails embedded in the girls flesh, breaking skin and four beads of crimson pooling on her snowy skin. It looked strangely beautiful. On an impulse, he dug in harder, before letting go.

A flash of pain flitted in Lucy's eyes, her wide amber eyes contained a misty sheen to them, but she didn't look especially afraid, infact she seemed to be doused in lust, drenched in it.

"My house is - "

"Yes."

Laughing throatily, Allan's lips curled into a slow, patronising thing, "Desperate aren't you love?"

Whipping his hand out, Allan dragged Lucy's arm firmly, over the bruise now developing amongst the pinprick crescents of red. She stumbled off the stool, emitting a sound that could be a choked cry, or moan.

"Wait! What's your name?", she gasped tugging her arm in resistance. The action seemed to cause her a significant amount of pain.

Allan turned, "Why does it matter?", he asked irritably.

"Well I'm going home with you and besides," she paused, lifting a hand to slip her fingers into the space between the holes of his bright red button down, one he'd worn in response to Nash's mocking, obnoxious drawl, "You're not wearing that black thing to a bar, are you?". He had laughed then, a Ha Ha Ha, his backstage stage laugh, derisive and superior. One he used to cut down directors and errand boys if they dare deign to speak to him, while he was getting ready to go out on stage. 

"I need to know it, so I know what to scream in bed.", she winked at him. 

Allan felt a surprising laugh flutter in his chest, no wonder she didn't scare earlier, she was as crazy as him and he said so.

"Not crazy, we're the groovy ones. Best of an extremely rotten batch.", Lucy grinned.

"Only the highest praise ay?, Allan grinned back.

His grin was all teeth, rakish and loose, intoxication smoothed out the usual furrow between his brows, caused by worrying, or fighting and by worrying, or fighting, Allan meant Nash. 

Lucy looked on admiring the man in front of her, resisting the urge to press herself against the bulge in his trousers. Something about the sight of it, straining against the black material, caused a string of heat to unravel in her core, pooling endlessly, until she ached. The way his long fingers wrapped around her forearm, pressing into the bruise and blood he had adorned her with made her shiver in anticipation; the night, the actions seemed wrapped in a poisonous yellow warning. A man she never had met, before today, a man who refused who give her his name, a man who had unabashedly hurt her in public, while seeming to bathe in her agony uremorsefully should have not been able to stir such emotions in her. Lucy didn't even have the excuse of alcohol to explain away such destructive urges. She ran her gaze over the man, as if searching for an explanation for her inexplicable decision. In his long hair of shoulder length, his straight nose and pink lips, tantalising lips. He was a tall man, thin, not overly so and had fair skin darker than hers, but pale all the same. She wondered vaguely what he did, the thought flickering at something in her head, but before she could pursue the sentiment, the man's grip on her arm tightened, twisting, sending a sharp pain up her arm, that had her hissing in response. As she lifted her eyes to his, she recoiled at the violence simmering them, who ever he was, alcohol did not stir his gentler emotions. His gaze was locked on something behind her shoulder, lips pinched bloodless.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys,
> 
> It just gets darker and darker. Ooop?

Lucy craned to see the source of the sour tang in the man, her eyes blurred as the movement wretched her arm at an awkward angle, skating the crowd to a blonde, stubbled man, with a haughty, smug expression that seemed to live on his face.  
She didn't want to like him, with his boisterous laugh and a face that invited you to punch it. A backfiefengesicht. But, there was something about him, his easy confident, cocky, entitled demeanour as his hands roamed not one, but two women, scantily clad, on each side of him, as well as a third between his legs grinding on him, as she mouthed his neck. It was in his eyes, which we of an unidentifiable colour from here, but the way the moved looking at the scene around him: a distinct vitality lay in them. A fervour for what life could offer, the endless opportunities it granted, if only you were brave enough to take them. Grab them by their hand, heedless of consequences. It made Lucy want to be by his side, for what he seemed to offer was not only fulfillment of flesh, but that of life itself.  
As if he could teach you how to live. Truly live.

And because Lucy herself could, nor would ever grab these opportunities, because as she'd said previously she was a rather plain soul, the idea of uprooting all she knew to be true terrified her. So perhaps, because of this, that which he promised was more alluring to her than other girls. If she became his, it would be his doing and not her decision that would lead her to dwell in the venomous ecstacy that surrounded his being.

"Like what you see?", the man growled, yanking with such force that she cried out, standing on her toes, as he twisted her savagely higher.

"N-n-no, it's not like that."

The girl, Lucy, seemed remorseful, pleading even, as she gazed into Allan's eyes with her watery ones, but even with the strain of guilt, he had seen the attraction in her eyes. Attraction for Nash. Allan knew her type, they got attached fast, bored of you quicker. This one in particular seemed to be a fly tangled already in his honey lined web.

No, he would not let her go, anger raced though him, mingling with the alcohol. He felt drunk, drunk on the drinks, on this power he held over her. She would be a good lay for him, but not just for now, until the time he decided she was useless and even then Allan would not let her go. For in his mind, she represented all that Allan hated about Nash, every fight, every demeaning sneer, every girl stolen. The connection was instant and solid, already fusing in his brain.  
He would destroy her, as Nash seemed hell bent on destroying Allan's dream. A twisted sort of revenge.

Walking back to Allan's flat was in itself no more so a punishment than an inevitable end to this night. Lucy found walking to be a pleasant form of transport, but Allan was pursuing his idea of revenge vigorously and even without knowing of Lucy's fairly positive view on walking, had made up his mind to derive her as uncomfortable as possible. Allan planned to drag the girl out of the bar, using her bruised forearm, like one would with a petulant child, but without her coat. Which would not have been an issue, except for the sluices of rain that slashed the windows, the chill of the night permeating the edges of the room, where they stood.  
They had made their way to a corner shabbier than the rest of the bar; Lucy's gaze snagged on a particular dusty crevice, where dust motes swirled lazily in the halo of the light fixture above. From this vintage point, near the back entrance, not only could Lucy see almost everyone occupying the bar, but they had a clear view of her too. Lucy, a wall flower at best did not enjoy the casual, flittering focus of the men and women in bar. Although their gazes were more often cursory and uninterested, as one might over look the sleek, black counter behind her, she still wish to slip away. To sidle towards the shadowed lawn the entrance led to. Ignoring the urge to flee, Lucy reached for her coat, only to have the man snatch it away.

"I'll hold on to that."

Before she could utter another word his hand snaked out tilting her chin up, so she had stand - once again - on her toes in order to adjust to the man's manoeuvering. And it was manoeuvring, like that of a mannequin. It made her feel clumsy and stupid; someone who couldn't even stand still properly. She felt chastised, without a word ever spoken. Unwilling to embarrass herself further, she kept her hands to her side, her mouth shut. The man was taller than her, so she had her head tilted to an almost ninety degree angle, looking up as if beseeching the heavens. Her legs strained, hands clenched, as she stared into the man's eyes. They were a dark pool, molten and unimpressed. 

He seemed to be unaware, or uncaring of how much time had passed, while he held her up, doing nothing, but piercing her with his stare, his mouth set in placidity. His breath hit her cheeks, her lips and a wave of heat began to spread up her neck and face, as she felt the gaze of others linger. People were watching, her lower lip trembled, her eyes smarting. What was she doing? The thought was a shrill bird's call, urging her to wake up, wake up, wake up.

An age seemed to pass as he took in her distressed state and finally, finally, he did something other than stare. Lowering his mouth, he captured hers. The kiss was not gentle, or soft. The man was rough, fast, his mouth claiming, pushing past her lips forcefully with his tongue claiming her in front of so many eyes, as if that had been his purpose. To make them see that right now, she belonged to him. Her heart thundered, the shrill call silenced. A shiver skittered down her spine, as her breathing quickened, until she was not kissing him back, but merely panting underneath him. His fingers a hook on her chin, holding her limp body up.  
Allan's trousers were straining, his blood seemed to pound a violent beat in his temples, as watched the girl melt under him, her face was flushed, upturned. He had her pinned her up, ravaging her lips under the watchful gaze of others. Allan hoped Nash was watching. Calmly, he raised his free hand to the smooth buttons at her collar, stroking them before he slipped them open, the first, second, third, fourth, until a generous portion of her breasts were on display, the soft and creamy white curves enconsced in a sheer, lacy black. The flicker of a smile graced Allan's lips, as he took in the freckles strewn among the dip and curve. Nash may have gotten three women, but he would use this one to the limit of those three. He'd make Nash see, he'd make him realise that just because Allan usually chose the more civil of routes, that just because he let Nash get his way, did not mean he would continue to do so always. Nash would return to her screaming, no matter how late he stayed out. He would hear her scream.

If anyone caught a glimpse of Allan in the moments as he was thinking these thoughts, they would have seen a malignant glint sparking in his dark, diluted orbs, a sneer marring his normally gentle face. They would see something at once distasteful and alluring, terrifying and intriguing. But no one did. He stepped back.  
The girl snapped open her eyes, preplexed to find that the yes, the cool air that caresed her skin with eager fingers was indeed due to her buttons being open. The dip of her collar that could be seen as tantalising before, was now positively scandalous. Flustered, Lucy began to salvage what was left of her self respect, the gazes were before intense and searching around her, watched. Most surreptitiously looking on, while others were unabashedly gleeful. Lucy burned, but through the shame, a trickle of lust spilled through her, her nipples erect, rubbing against the flimsy material of her bra. 

Allan watched her fumble around a few seconds more; he trapped her hands in his, sliding down to grip her wrists to prevent movement. 

"Come on love. We don't have all day.", he rebuked the girl.

Lucy tilted her face to his in supplication, pleading, surely he didn't mean...  
"But, my... I need to.", she whispered, her voice a rasp, a leaf in the storm that was him, desperately clinging to the branches of normality. She looked lewd, with her wide, glassy eyes, breast heaving, thrusting obscenely forward with each breath she took, her lips raw and red and glossy, framed by hair like embers of a smouldering fire, or a dying one. She looked wrecked and Alan hadn't even begun, images of how she would look after he was truly done with her struck a gas line in him.

Voice coming out rough, "Everyone can see how much you're enjoying this, so let's not play games now little girl," he said, words dripping with superiority. Grabbing her injured arm, he particularly yanked her outside, intending to cause as much hurt as possible, like she was an embarassing child, not a grown women of eighteen.

Lucy knew his words had reached the eager ears of those around them and could do nothing, but be handled like a rag doll, for how could she deny what was blatantly the truth. She gasped as the rain fell like needles on her exposed breasts, face and arms, stinging her flesh. This man had made sure to leave space between his fingers, so the icy water would bite at her injury, while he himself gnawed at it with his calloused skin and digging nails. In seconds she was drenched and they had not even left the threshold of the bar. He wasn't even holding the umbrella above her!

"Hey, listen I -"

Exhaling sharply, the man spun his head towards her, flicking raindrops from the charcoal umberalla onto her. "Take your boots off!"

Startled, Lucy froze at the odd request, squinting against the spitting, black sky, she frowned.

"What? Why? It's pouring, my feet will get ripped up, the pavement isn't exactly the red bloody carpet you know."

"Exactly. Now. Take. Them. Off." Each word was accentuated with a vicious pinch of her arm. This was no longer the complex choice of whether Lucy would follow this man home, or not. It was simply the decision to obey in order to delay the punishment for a man who had no qualms about using physical fore in front of others, would certainly have no reservations employing a harsher force in the vicinity behind a closed door. The thought sent a twisted excitement through Lucy, an illicit pleasure, it seemed the man wasn't the only one disturbed, because avert the accusation as she might. The rapid breathing, slick core of hers was not only due to fear. Groaning in perverse pleasure, she bent to zip down her boots, she turned, making sure her breast spilled out toward the man like an offering. Her arm was still clutched in his grip, making the maneuver humiliating and awkward, displaying the curve of behind, as the dripping material stuck and stretched over every crevice to those in the bar and on the street.

Allan's trousers became painful, as he watched the girl struggle to do as he asked, her breasts glistening with rain water, hair limp and dull clinging to her pale neck. Allan wanted to mark that neck, with a necklace of bruises. The ferocity of the urge came unbidden, a flint that spurred not molten flame, but a mirror version of it, sickly and blue; corrupting.

She straightened, footwear in her hand. Allan had found a rare one, a slow satisfied smiled curved his lips spreading them into a predatory grin.

"Come along, slut darling.", Allan purred to the wet, shivering girl. Ensuring the volume of his words was loud, so they could slither like envy into the ears of those enjoying the show he had made her put on. Nash wasn't the only one who could get off other's humiliation, he wasn't the only one with the need for control. Wrongly procured though it may be. Learnt from Nash though it may be, Allan was definitely one of those lads now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very dark porn.;)
> 
> Expect weekly updates, that might change later on to two weeks, but I will give a warning.
> 
> Enjoy! Usual tags apply.

Lucy's feet were a landscape of stinging soles and smattering cuts, the man seemed to push her away from any grass, any semblance of releif. Every bundled up body, shoe covered foot seemed a mockery of her state, the elderly looked on with withering states cursing her foolishness, women looked on with disgust pooling in there eyes, contempt lining their mouth, as if questioning how she could comply to this degradation, degradation which went against all the progess women had achieved for themselves. Men, young and old peered at her exposed body, she was nothing beyond what she displayed and for that rose women could not forgive her. But Lucy didn't want forgiveness, if anything being hated made her all the more aroused. What would that hatred lead to from a women? The thought made her shiver with dangerous thrill, how wrong that would be. 

Allan was growing restless, the gaze of each stranger stroked a flare of heat in him, how lovely she would taste. This stupid girl who thought she stood a chance. He felt her shivering uncontrollably in his grip and saw what the prolonged minutes in the cold did to her, her eyes dulled, face blackened of outrage, or indignation. She was regressing thing, a bloom in reverse, who couldn't think beyond the need for warmth; complacent, malleable and completely his. Reaching his flat's front door, Allan slowed his stride, making his way through a rusting gate, stone covered path with peeking weeds, each blade of overgrown grass glittering with the weight of the falling drops. Managing the yard had been Nash's job, perhaps he'd make the girl clean it for him from now onwards, each painstaking weed at a time, to remind her of her place. Perhaps in short skirts and nothing underneath, the living room window had a drab view anyway. A malicious smito flickered in the corners of Allan's lips, as he cluttered open the door, with a twist of his key.

He shared a flat with Nash, a minimal clean creature that grew a mildew of messes when petted by Nash. Nash had an annoying habit of trailing shirts and belts and instruments and condoms behind him everywhere he stepped on the chocolaty, wooden floors. Flinging the girl aside, Allan unbuttoned and hung his coat, kicked off his shoes. Turning his attention back to the girl, he took her in. Her arms were wrapped around her herself, her breath quivering with the cold, lashes dripping with misery, she looked easily breakable. 

The man looked harsher to Lucy somehow, the unknown space made him more formidable, he was in a familiar environment, in a place where he belonged, had possibly lived for some time, whilst Lucy couldn't, couldn't. She just couldn't think. The chill seemed to have seeped into her bones, it wore her skin. There was an inexplicable gleam in his eyes as he looked her over, it wasn't entirely lustful, but propriety, as one looks over their belonging. He shook out raindrops from his hair, they had snuck in, unable to resist the soft refuge. The action made him seem younger and Lucy couldn't help, but feel a bubble of warmth blossom at it's execution.

"Clean it."

The moment passed.

Nonplussed, Lucy stated back.

"I know you're not deaf little girl, so what I want to know is why you're still standing there like an idiot.

"W-w-with what?" Lucy asked, teeth clacking, surrendering to the command, she didn't have any energy to spare on logic, or ingenuity.

Allan's patience was a frayed thread of spider silk, so when he wrenched open Lucy's mouth, slamming the rounded plastic knob of the umbrella in her mouth that hatred her jaw and left her teeth singing, it wasn't because it was he had planned this, or even ever wanted to do such a thing, the impulse had been spontaneous and cruel. Lucy's hands flew up gripping the black instrument that seemed more charcoal grey upclose. Her hair blood red with saturation, seemed to foreshadow an ominous end to this encounter. Ignoring, her panicked expression Allan pressed the umbrella deeper.

"I don't like repeating myself. You do as I say, when I say, where I say. Are we clear? "

The man's voice was a warning hiss that would ring in Lucy's head for days to come. She emitted a strangled noise in affirmation, the meaning behind his earlier words rearing it's head, she was meant to clean the umbrella with her tongue. The realisation was ugly, something in her roiled with disgust, because she would do as he asked. Of course she would. 

Slowly Allan pried the umbrella from the girls mouth, Alan's other hand slipping to her neck before tightening around her snowy neck. Lust, panic and self loathing swam in the girl's eyes, a poisonous concoction that was addictive as it was destructive; a freeing sort of remedy. Allan couldn't resist, didn't want to, or even try to deny the elation he felt as he leaned over the dripping, scared girl, struggling for air, while he felt her shuttering pulse under his fingertips. Tugging her forward, he let her fall gasping to her knees, as he held the umberella lazily in front of her face, a taunt, a test. 

Crawling forward hastily, Lucy stuck her tongue onto the wet canvas, afraid of further retaliation. This explicit debasement, utter lack of concern for her well being, forceful manipulation should not have pushed her over the edge in the way that it did, but it had and the more Lucy lapped up the rainwater, under the amused, superior gaze of this volatile stranger, the faster her senses, perception blurred. She simply could not think past her throbbing core, aching breasts and the need, need, need that ravaged her mind, until all she wanted was the relief, the pounding, painful relief the man was capable of giving her.

Watching her kneel, Allan twisted the umbrella higher at times, lower, far to the left, right. Any where as long as it made her bend forward, reach higher, she was almost pathetic in her devotion to complete such a demeaning task; desperate. Allan could see how desperate she was, her heavy pale breasts, heavy lidded eyes stirred a violent need in him. He wanted to ravage her. Wanted her now.

Thrusting the umbrella aside he snatched at her hair, stringy and damp from the rain, arching her face sharply upwards, leaving her marred neck on display. A blossoming of bruises lined her throat, a viscious collar of indigo fingertips. It seemed like it should hurt her, but the girl only moaned, a gurratul, husky sound. When Nash had spoken of women "who'd do anything for him", those "whores that fell over backwards" for him, Allan had been disgusted, ashamed even at having a friend like him. In being his friend. How could anyone refer to another human being like that? He'd thought. But that was before, before Nash had dragged him kicking and screaming into the alleys he lived in, before Allan loathingly began to enjoy, to want to never leave those crumbling, shady dwellings. Before Allan had a girl: red haired, mouth slackened, lips glistening like cherries, knees splayed obscenely at the alter of his feet. She was a devout, a pilgrim to his dominance. Allan had never felt so... huge, commanding, salicious. It came from knowing he could do what he wanted to the girl, she wouldn't dare stop him and even if she did, who's to say he would? Nash had never, so why would he? A voice seemed to whisper, kicking the edges of his consciousness, something about better men and irreversibly crossed lines. Allan batted it away, like one would an annoying fly; carelessly, relexively. And soon, it's faint buzzing quietened in opposition to the rumbling of the creature that slumbered inside of him. A creature that had stirred and flicked a poison tail in him for so long, always sedated by his gentler emotions: an immune system of sorts. Know it seemed his immune system was no longer what it used to be, or perhaps it too had turned into something unrecognizable. Allan knew he had, knew that what he was about to do, had already done would change him, change something inside of him. Allan liked to think of it as development, a sort of permanent reconstruction.

So Allan did what he wanted, not because it was what anyone in his situation would do, but because he knew somewhere along the way, the years with Nash had severed that part of him so completely. Tightening his grip on the girl, Allan dragged her up, ignoring, revelling in her outraged, trapped cries. Tugging her higher until she arched, like a wooden marionette. Throat bared. Breasts thrust upwards.Hands limp. Teetering on her tiptoes, while Allan opened button, by button and the dress pooled at their feet; she's skin of an endangered animal.  
Pain. So much pain. It seemed to Lucy every follicle of her hair was fire, a heat, sharp and unbearable for being so completely unpleasant coursed through her scalp. The shame and arousal of her depraved actual not vained and in light of such a blatant unconcern for her well being, Lucy felt caged in doubt. Truly, if she had such little self respect a moment ago, what made her think she was unworthy of preemptive punishment. She couldn't think, the trembling of her legs: bare, her stomach: bare, her whole self: bare made these concerns secondary. The chill of the night seemed to creep into the still darkened flat, through the walls and into her skin. She was naked, clad in nothing, but the flimsy black lace cupping her breast and sex. It was no more a covering than a ring, or necklace, or any over of jewellery is; it was merely a decorative piece to highlight her assets. 

She could feel the drops of rainwater that dropped from her hair, circling her throat before they caressed a minuscule river down her spine, tracing the contours of her back. She felt the salicious eye of the man follow it down, watching it dip into the curves of her scantily clad behind. Lucy shivered at the promise of pain they held, for it was a threat no more, but an inevitable promise.

"Got quiet the arse haven't you? Don't try to deny it, I know you're aware," flicking his eyes contemptuous down, "Well it's not the best I've seen, quiet average actually, so what I want to know is why you've dressed it up like a present you 're about to give away?" Twisting his hand, Allan squeezed rain from her hair, clenching the strands and pulling in them as he spoke each word. The girl's lashes fluttered in response, speared wings on an amber bird, her breath jerking, mouth gaping to let out her whimpers and cries and moans of pleasure.

"I asked you a question Lucy, did I not? Answer me, I expect to be answered darling", Allan tone a hiss: patronizing and provocative, no more an endearment than his current actions themselves.

"Is it because you are a whore Lucy? Is it so? You are aren't you?"

"It's no-" the gasped syllables cut off to a scream. Allen's fingers held Lucy's erect nipple in the I'd grip, a taunt, a warning; continuing to harshly twist and methodically pull, a cruel thing flickered in his dark eyes.

"Don't lie to me little girl. You can not ever lie to me."

"Now," Allan crooned, perversely tender, "Remind me, you were saying..."

"I am. I am a whore. I am." Lucy choked out, almost sobbing in her admission. Humiliation and the utter awareness of such extreme vunerubility licked her body flush: a bud newly bloomed.

"You hesitated. I will need to teach you not to hesitate."

And without any warning, Allan turned, leading the girl behind him with her hair. Allan smirked as he heard her stumble, tossing a look back, he caught sight of her: bent awkward at ninety degrees, clutching the roots of her hair, breasts swinging as she scampered behind him. Reaching down to his own pants, Allan couldn't help, but to f humble the button open, careful not to touch his crotch, for the painful straining throb he felt, he would come right here, as he watched the girl be led around, like a common mare, by him. Upon reaching the burgundy sofa, he had purchased not long ago, to match the tastefully black wooden coffee table, the very same which Nash had ridiculed as it so happened to perfectly complement the sofa, so Allan liked a well put together house, screw him, Allan all but three the girl into it.

Having but a minute to wrap her arms in front of her face, Lucy crashed into the hard wood, it's edge jabbing her hipbone, the contact singing through her elbows, stomac, knees and a million other places of contact with the object and the cool floor, which seemed sandpaper to her bare skin, the friction of the momentum burning. She had only begun to collect her rattled state, the thought of long lasting bruises bringing another wave of stinging through her injuries, when a hand pushed her face into the rough bark of the wood. It contained grooves and niches, as if someone had cut one too many things on it, with out a cutting board. They dug into her face, her right cheek smashed into them, her breathing hindered as nose no longer had access to oxygen as it should. She felt the man's feet kick her legs apart and was mortified to find a dampness inbetween her legs, Lucy seemed to be enjoying the manhandling, one would go as far to say extremely welcoming it, craving more for the garment was not slightly dampened, but saturated with her arousal and the revelation of it was inevitable. It was only a queiry of sooner, or later, possibly sooner as she left a calloused hand massage her bottom. Rubbing it, almost... mapping of out?

She heard the noise first, the sting, the blood rushing to her ears came later. It was like a distant clap, a harsh discordant sound in the ominous quiet of the house, the plinking rain of the outdoors, the ragged breathing of them both. At first she could only freeze, stupidified into silence: blinking, blinking. He didn't give her long. Behind her, she felt the man raise his hand, pause, baiting her, letting the apprehension and fear strum her nerves like a thunderous tune, so she almost begged for him to do it! Do anything! Just do it! The second time he spanked her she felt it, the collison echoing through her cheeks, pushing her into the edge of the table, cutting her skin. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt.

"Don't,"

Smack

"Ever"

Smack

"Hesitate." 

Smack

"Don't,"

Smack 

"Ever"

Smack

"Contradict"

Smack 

"Me."

"Am I understood?" This was send with such vehwmence, such fervent malignancy that Lucy could do nothing, but answer in a broken string of yesses. They seemed to be both pleas and acknowledgements.

"Repeat what you said. Tell me that you will be what I want, be it a chaste, innocent girl, a whore of a woman, or a filthy mongrel. You will be exactly what I want: no more, no less."

Allan was growling, voice raised to be heard over the cacophony of abuse. He licked his lips, his blood dancing, raging at the sight of the girls pale, trembling body, wracked with pain and cold, the moonlight from the opened curtain splashing onto her skin. It seemed as vandalised with her quivering form as Allan, illuminating the warped constellation of freckles on her: on her back, her spine, her legs, her ankles, the inside of her knee. They seemed to burn on her skin, making a mockery of her tangled, limp hair. Her knees were slated outwards, the table reaching just below Allan's knee: a perfect instrument to display her arse, which jutted outwards, tilted up, ensconced in midnight threads of sheer fabric, kissing the curve and dip of her behind and even winking the occasional view of her sex at him. How Allan would destroy it. How he looked forward to it. Allowing her still, no hint of a reprieve Allan continued assauging the girl, providing a rhythm to her lyrical sobs: I am a whore. I am a whore. I am a whore. A bit repetitive, but Allan would soon fix new lines into her routine. 

Allan's husky laugher, low though it was sent all the hairs on the girl's body upright. No image was more fitting to be that of a predator and prey.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Sorry I took so long to post, but I am continuing the story. Hope you're still on board. It continues to get darker. Oops? ;)
> 
> Tell me what you think and enjoy. <3

Spent, aching and molested to such a degree, the girl could not emit more than an exhausted broken groan; even the slightest touch, miles below her threshold of pain ended in such a result. Allan had wrecked, in varying degrees, that threshold; splintering boundaries even Nash eased his dalliances into. It seemed in being the quieter and reserved one of the faux brother duo, Allan had suppressed a far festering sort of sadism: it was dense and concentrated, a cyanide dosage. It had been an hour, perhaps two since Allan had started the assault, even his hand, arm ached, but it was a delicious sort, one that spoke of work well done and goals achieved and Allan relished in it, as he would any song well written, finely composed. Indeed, it was fine work of the groovy ones from an extremely rotten bunch.

Reaching the end of his torment, Allan wrenched the limp, useless body of the girl up. 

"Come now. Surely you aren't done so soon."

Falling back into the couch, he lounged with both arms hugging the backs of the sofa in a leisurely, unaffected stance, as if prolonging a card game played with the lads.

Smirking, he flicked his slightly sweat dampened hair out of his face, seeming at once incongruously charming and assertive. 'Entertain me' his smile seemed to say: but an upward curl of his redden lips, so plump, so raw, as if he had been biting them, while he inflicted punishmen. A twisted mirror image to hers. A contrasting assertion in his demeanour. A lyric to the whole song of his face, with furrowed eyebrows and squinted eyes, as if the task at hand had been just that: a task. His nonchalant air seemed to throw the girl. She looked onit, facing him, head tilted up - slumped as she was, weight resting on both hands and outward pointing calves, her bottom lifted to give it the semblance of relief - with wild eyes and crumpled hair, poised in the glass motion of unsurity, as to whether the senseless violence had ceased. Her breathing hitching yet langurious from fatigue, a heavy lidded countenance of both ravaging lust and ravaging hurt.y

Lucy was astonished. Confused. Disoriented. She felt weak and stupid. The silly little girl this man had claimed with each action that she was. Had it not been but a moment when she lay pinned, helpless under his cruel hands and agonising touch? Was it not as eternal a moment as it felt when all she thought of was obedience to make the pain stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. Well no. Judging by the man's easy disposition, it had been no outrageous meeting, no diminutive affair. For all the inflections of this dark haired, darked eyed, dark souled man painted the illusion of normalcy, of someone who had barely grazed the boundaries of lesser crime, while she held in her hand a crude slippainted claiming of an alleged felony. She was clearly over exaggerating, over analysing, over feeling. A mere, pathetic women, incapable of taking even the slightest offense, slightest indiscretion. Clearly a hyperbolic stereotype of her sex.

She was confused.

After being so thoroughly scraped raw, she began to think of herself as being weaker than she had previously perceived. It must be her, surely he would not sit so calm if the extent of which she thought had taken place, had actually taken place. And on and on. Not even a full day in the clutches of this man and Lucy began to discredit the most obvious evidence not in favour of the man. 

The pain? She was weaker than she thought.

The humiliation? She was she more prudent than she thought.

The lack of information on the man's part? It was more exciting than she first invisioned.

Her abundantly emerging lust? She was more obscene than she thought.  
Each transgression had an answer, none in her favour and all she could think of was to please this man. She must. She must. She must please him at all and any cost. So dragging her body forward, she all but slumped into the man's lap face first, mouthing his crotch, evoking a purring laugh.

"Yes my love, like so."

Confidence enforced, she tiredly lapped at the stretched bulged, a feline begging entry. Bucking his hips, as he muffled her face in his jeans with the other hand, Allan shucked his trousers, pulling down his boxer, which snagged on her neck. Allan tightened the cloth. Once again the girl found herself abused: aphyxiated, suffocating in the man's lap, Lucy throbbed incessantly from her very pores. Her head ringing. Blood rushing. Lucy thrashed: lethargic.

Moaning Allan bucked a few times more before he released the girl. Too ringed out with need to fully comprehend the violence, Lucy took it in stride, taking but a second, or two to gather her breath, before aptly tugging the garment down. Without hesitation, she swallowed the appendage, catching but a glimpse of it's vein riddled exterior. To no one's surprise, the girl bobbed sloppily, slowly, tantalizing was the hint of such talents applied on him, when fully rejuvenated. Alas, today was not to be the day and impatient that he was Allan snatched at the girl, no more assisting her, than fucking himself in her. She was but an object, an inanimate thing. Thrusting rapidly, Allan pushed the girl down deeper, forcing her throat to choke and gag on his full length. Harder he pushed, groaning a gutturally satisfied sound, animal in it's ferality. But he was still not satisfied. Reaching around, Allan scraped his dirty, hard soles on the tender, damaged flesh of her behind, making the girl scream around him. Her wracking sobs vibrating through him, pooling, electrifying his nerves as he came to her mournful cries and muffled shrieks. Shooting load after load down her throat, as she gagged and pleaded and struggled.

It was only when Allan emerged from beyond the blinding cliff's edge that he heard another predominantly sound. A sort of rapid slick pumping. Looking down he saw the girl had buried two fingers deep in herself, blatantly acknowledging, confessing to the twisted attraction he aroused in her. She pumped fervently, panting around him still, tears matting her cheeks from her bottom being prodded at. She was an obscene picture of desperation. So exquisitely obscene that Allan could wait no longer, ripping her hand out, he shoved her back, spearing into her roughly. He moved inside her viciously, evoking a mangling of cries and moans and whimpers as her tender flesh dragged against the slick floor: a lament of pleasure, pain and pleading. More, more, more. He wanted more. He wanted to carve her empty; carve into her flesh, stripping away layers of skin from the inside. To penetrate her so completely, as to make her forget that she ever existed individual, independent of him. Applying just the right amount of excrutiating suffering as to disallow her relief, he reveled in base power he held. The base control. Each tick of the clock, making her writhe all the more enthusiasticly. She no longer felt the restraints of all that was right. Her moans grew higher. Her sobs louder. And Allan came once again to the melody of her frustrated wail.

Pulling out slowly, Allan slumped back against the settee, watching dazedly as the girl lay wretched, vunerable: strewn as if in the throes of death. Too defeated, to even think of relieving herself, as she muttered almost insanely. A rant of pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease chocked out through clenched teeth: uncontrollable and dependant as a fawn, the prayers indistinguishable between the request of mercy and the request of destruction. Allan pushed himself up, lips curling in delighted, disgust at the broken thing at his feet, how the shards of her flickered in the moonlight. Comptenptously, slowly, Allan lifted his feet before he lowered it between her legs. The action made it clear that he was doing her a favour, bestowing a reward on the beggar that she was. Like an after thought, he ground his shoe into her bundled nerves, watching as shock after shock of release sizzled through her. Leaving her gasping, gaping, endlessly gracious. She was wracked with spasms, her eyes rolling upwards, back arching, legs quivering. Allan did not stop until she was limp, panting bleary eyed. He collected her up and used her soaking, now undoubtedly tattered underwear to bind her to the coat rack at the entrance of his flat. A demented welcome mat for Nash. 

"See here Graham" Allan thought before making his way to bed. The gauntlet had been thrown.

 

Pissed out off his mind, a rumpled, rather jovial Graham Nash at once pleased with himself and his little Graham stumbled noisily through the door. Let it wake Allan, he sniggered, sodding boring fella that he was. Poor lad must had a predictably unsatisfactory end to his night, seeing he had left as early as he had. Pathetic.  
After all but ripping the hinges off the front door in his haste to close it, Graham staggered against the wall, his hand catching on... flesh?

"Bloody hell!"

Graham's heart lept from his chest, shuttering even as he looked upon an innocuous sight. There was a girl strung to the coat rack! A girl! A honest to god, only bra clad girl! Pale skin bared in every way, ravaged. Her throat, arm, torso sprinkled with bruises.

It seemed Graham had indeed drunk too much, or Allan had begun a collection. Laughing a boisterous chorus of ha's Graham snickered. Allan responsible for this indeed. Allan! Must be some deranged fan. Must be.  
With that thought Graham let slip the conundrum of the girl's presence from his mind, forgetting of her completely as he made his way towards the couch, falling face first into it. Before crashing into sleep, he did notice the floor a bit slick under his feet. Must be Allan having hot, hot sex Graham laughed to himself distantly. Ha, Allan indeed.

 

It wasn't that she particularly enjoyed being strung up on the coat rack: arms quivering, wrists raw from each time her legs gave out, causing her to dance maniacally in order alleviate the pressure by regaining her footing. Or lack there of, seeing as Lucy was forced to teeter on her toes, due to her short stature, the task a torment in of itself. It was the helplessness, the humiliation, the euphoria that so often comes with no sleep, which shut down all higher processes of thought. She was unable to think beyond her need for warmth, for pain lessened, for she had long since given up on the idea that someone would help her. It was the realisation, that the tales she was fed to avoid, in order to prevent such dangers had so clearly become a redundant warning. Any chance of wresting back control had been clawed so thoroughly from her that she felt free of responsibility. What could she possibly do to improve her position? Nothing. Wasn't it her who consented to this after all? A small part of her hissed in opposition to this spiral into submission, but it was no more intelligible than the sharp bursts of water from a faulty tap, irritable yet easily avoidable. 

Far louder, more insistent was the primal need that pooled in her core. There was no goal in her mind, save release. The night had done little save for crumble more of her restrain, she would do any depraved thing the man demanded of her. Gladly even. Lucy could still feel the shoe in between her legs, the dismissiveness, the cruelty in that action. Unconsciously she moaned aloud, bucking her hips, as if the air would provide her with what she needed. He had meant, with that action to diminsh her, to belittle.

He had succeeded. 

But Lucy found she not care. All she could think of was his boot on her core, his hand smacking her behind, a sneer glinting in the dark. Her back arched, sweat clinging to her upper lip, making streams down her body. She was a broken doll pinned down carelessly, writhing and panting and sobbing through clenched teeth hoping desperately to be played with again.  


It was then she saw him.

 

He had awoken to the sound of distant traffic, the morning light slashing his face. He had forgotten to close the curtains. Allan was not a person who forgot such things. His room was a perfect representation of how he, unlike certain other individuals, ensured that careless was not an adjective applied to him. It was tidy, not too large, after all they weren't millionaires just yet; Allan grunted in appreciation of his own joke. The sun splashed in through a brown window, spilling onto the desk he had laboriously moved in, it was neatly organised: writing utensils in the right corner, his song books to the left, piled beside a lamp with a flower covered shade. It was a roit of colour, covering the walls in flowers of varying sizes, of crimson, teal, marigold; useless as a source of light, but Allan liked it non-the-less. It was the only fanciful thing in his room. He didn't remember buying it. The sunlight strained, stopping just short of the mahogany wardrobe, nicked and worn. It was essentially a box for his clothes, Allan felt no urgency in replacing it. His whole room was as he liked it, simple and masculine, without reeking of testosterone.

Allan knew he should get up already, but the acute roar in his brain encouraged him otherwise. Reaching to the edge of his bed, Allan took his guitar from where it was leaning against his bedside table, faintly plucking a song he had begun writing. He'd get up in a minute. Well, at least he had proven Nash wrong. Allan winced at his motive: childish, immature, he didn't want to look to closely at what drove this. Perhaps he wouldn't drink so heavily again, the aftermath wasn't worth it, he knew this and yet he had yet again let Nash under his skin. Bloody Hell! How could such little alco--

The guitar twanged, strings releasing a sharp scream.

Allan shot upright, his head protesting. Surely... No. Making as few movements as he could, he quickly made his way out of the room and across the landing. Hesitating at the top of the stairs, hand hovering above the banister, memories of last night played in sharp focus. It was as if they had been rolling on a screen just outside his prephiral vision and now that he had acknowledged them, they would not be ignored. They seemed to grow without moving, encompassing him, until he was the alien in the habitat of his mind and the reel an every day occupant. It was a disturbing plethora of images, The creature inside Allan smiled viciously; crooned, relishing the memories of pain inflicted and agony wrung.

From start to finish.

Her copper hair under the golden glow. Her pale cheeks speckled with freckles. Her eyes of liquid amber. Her lips; pink and tantalising.

It was the coy tilt of her chin. It was the unsure curve to her shoulders. It was the panic on her strained face. It was the lust spooling from eyes. 

The glinting awareness that what was occuring would be deemed wrong, could end in consequences too steep for her pay, the utter stupidity in her reasoning. All of the faux pas in her plan to live a safe, boring life melting to glistening tar that outlined her smouldering pupils, as if caging in the ardour for self destruction. Uselessly it seemed.

For the desperation in her first "Yes" said enough. Her reluctant subservience when stripped in the bar said enough. Her willingness to participate in her own degradation said enough. 

Her pain glazed gaze, bruise bloomed skin, salacious pants crackled in Allan's sight. The screens repeating each gasp, whimper and moan of pleasure and agony. It should have shamed Allan, seeing what he had done, the lines he had crossed, how he had brutalized the girl.

It should have. Yet it did not.

The man controlling the girl did not look like a monster to him. To Allan he looked powerful. Perhaps if she had resisted more thoroughly, been less inclined to accept every perverse advance he had made he would feel something akin to remorse. No, Allan knew, sometime last night, between the liquor and the raw, festering wound that Nash had raptured and let rot in him, they would have ended up here one way or the other. For she was indeed the embodiment of every thing Nash had done to him: joyful and tormenting. They were so often the same thing when it came to Nash. 

The connection was strong, it seared in his mind, the edges sizzling flesh like a brand. Allan found even in the crisp light of day, he still wanted her ruined by his hand. It was a cold realisation, detached from the rest of him and it sank like a stone rippling the curulean pool that was Allan.

So down he went.

He saw her strained feet, raised on her toes first. He naked calves quivering, thighs trembling from fatigue, a mockery of the release he'd allowed her. She wore no garment to cover her bottom half, her hip bones protuding gently through her skin, defined yet not the sharpest he had seen. His eyes snagged in the two line freckles on the flat of her stomach, brown flecks of paint spattered involuntarily by a vapid artist. He had missed those. Allan's eyes roved over the various bruises, a tingle of cool satisfaction slicing over his nonchalant demeanour. Her straining arms, fists clenched around the two strips of cloth restraining her wrists slipped as he cleared the last step. The girl too busy scrambling to right herself to notice him, not three feet from her.

If someone close to Allan was to describe him, then as he was, they would have been unsure how. He was no different than usual, the experience at the club had not reconstructed him, or rendered him unrecognisable. Yet something had shifted irreversibly, evident as Allan observed the girl:

Her face slack. Ivory teeth sunken into bottom lip: ripe berries begging to be bitten. Sweat winking in her lashes, dripping down her chin, onto her chest: soaked, lace clinging to her breasts like a pathetic excuse of modesty. Each pitiful cry thrusting them up and down. A mouse in a trap.

Allan watched her; still, silent. His mouth curled in disdain as she hefted her hips repeatedly, it becoming clear that the prevailing torment was other than that which he had expected. Allan found however that he was pleased. He slipped a hand into his pocket, stepping forward. 

It was then she saw him.

 

He woke up with a start. Eyes flinging open. Raising a hand he rubbed at his face, fingers catching in stubble. He had long since stopped experiencing a headache after such a night, well he hadn't gone easy in such a night for so long. A rougish grin whipped across his face. Maybe, he should find other delicacies, the ones that enticed more of a kick.

Yawning, Nash tussled his hair and sat up, squinting at the light. Blasted sofa, had left a kink in his neck. Perhaps he would buy a bed for the living room, not like he made it upstairs most days. His grin turned somewhat feral imagining the ruckus Clarkey would cause if he did. The withering stare he would pin on him: "It's ludricrous. Must you behave so foolishly every step of the way?" He'd let Graham get his way in the end though, even Allan couldn't say no to Graham Nash. Even considering he was way too serious, that man. Anyways, what ... 

Food!  
Breakfast!  
Lunch!  
Whatever the fuck!

Food was indeed a fine plan, groaning at his stiff joints Nash stood up, stretching his arms and twisting his neck; the fine blonde hairs catching the light. He was seriously going to pitch the bed idea to Clarke. His bloody back! Yawning once again, Nash set of towards the kitchen, arms crossed behind his head, forming a widened X just above his neck. He was starving.

There are times when your eyes register something, but your brains stutters, reaching to catch up. This was not one of those times. Nash halted, frozen in the hallway, his eyes flicking between the two people in front of him.

She was bare waist down. He was fully clothed.  
She was suspended. He stood tall.  
She was wracked with tremors. He remained still.

Nash was speechless, he viewed the scene, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. His brain pulled up blank. Allan stood a metre away from him, looking at a girl; steely eyed, unimpressed. The girl stared up at him; ravenous, exhausted. From some distant fog in Nash's mind, a blurry image emerged: his hand on cool skin, a low whine staining the night. Nonplussed, Nash lowered his arms, serveying his hand.

It was then they saw him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I'm fifteen minutes late. Sue me. :p
> 
> Next chapter will be out on Saturday, two weeks from now, only because I'm working on a side project. After that I'll continue posting weekly. Apologies for the wait in advance. <3
> 
> Hope you enjoy. <3

Allan remembered a conversation he'd had with Nash, not too long ago. It had started with some inane comment Nash had made when writing a song with Clarke. He had wanted some explicit theme, or other; nothing surprising there. He didn't know what it was exactly, but Allan clearly recalled what he said to Nash, it was an antique of a sentence: one that didn't mean much in the moment, but become valuable as time went on, a coveted item:

"We're the boys that parents want their girls to go home with Nash. We're hip enough like the other youngsters, but not overly so as to deter the parentals. Us two are psychedelic made tangible: riots of colour hiding the crazy."

Nash grinned. Flinging his legs in Allan's lap, leaning back on his elbows, which sank into Alan's comforter. He hummed in agreement. But, then he opened his mouth:

"I guess, but that's also your problem Clarkey, why can't you just be a lad? What's the use spending your life cultivating every aspect of yourself? You're not a fucking sheep are you?" 

Allan frowned, biting back that if Nash had spent even some of his life actually doing so, he would know one doesn't cultivate sheep, but crops.  
He knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as he beheld Nash's answering smirk.

It enraged him so, that slight curl of Nash's lip which mocked Allan so effectively, cutting him down, crooning that he had, by the very intention of rebuting Nash, proven his point. Nash didn't even need to say anything. This of course the bastard knew. Nash just flicked his eyes towards Allan's clentched fists, before dismissing him. Irreverent, blasé.

"We'll still do it your way Clarkey, relax." Nash threw himself back as if to emphasize the point, disrupting the papers scattered in front of Allan; snowy pages, scrawled with messy words about carousels and puling ducks out of the water. Allan's shoulders loosened, he rolled his eyes -- insufferable bafoon -- picking up a pen to continue refining ideas Nash threw out and adding his own. He did not feel like he'd won at all.

It was that specific taunt, Allan thought of as he spied Nash: blonde hair in disarray, strands slipping over his downtrend eyes: twin pools of intensity. He stood barefoot in crumpled clothing, looking strangely lost. He was a Graham from a past time, erroneously slipped into the now. Something ached in Allan, but before he could analyse it, Nash looked up, eyes locking onto Allan. His face carefully blank.  


It was a peculiar stand off. The two men didn't move, didn't dare breathe, both ignoring the girl. Her rasping pants cluttering onto the floor between them, obsidian, obscene: bulky yet easily breakable; glossy yet capable of drawing blood. Foreign on the familiar floor; ugly.

It was Allan who moved first. Without breaking Nash's stare, he reached up to deftly unty the knot holding up the girl, ignoring her entirely. Nash winced at the sound of flesh and bone hitting the floor with a hard thump, amusement flickered in Allan's gaze; there and gone, no more than a stray spark from an inefficient flint. Nash didn't know what to think, he didn't know who this Allan was, he was scrambling to find his cords in this alien melody. He could only look on, into the glare of the lights, face unreadable, stance aloof, as if this was part of the set, as if he was still in control. Nash did not like being caught unaware.

Allan made his way towards Nash, heart hammering Nash watched as his legs ate up the space in one, two, three, steps. Nash watched as Allan came up to him... and walked right past? He blinked. Confused. What...

"Want breakfast? I'm starving."

Allan looked over his shoulder, a mildly quizzical look his face; eyebrows furrowed, hands already rolling up his sleeves. No mention of what just happened. No explanation. Fine. It was to be this way then. Poor little Clarkey had picked the wrong fight, Nash was well versed in avoidance, he'd been practicing for years. He twisted his lips into a jaunty smile.

"For your cooking Clarkey? Always. I won't be helping today though, rough night. "  
Nash winked. Smug as he wrenched out a chair from their small dining table, twisted it around so he could straddle the seat and lean his arms across the back.  
Allan scoffed, back turned, as he washed his hands in the sink. The sun slipped through the glass to play with his hair, dappled through the trees lining the edge of their small garden. Two rusted metal chairs winked at Allan, from under the shade at the far edge -- and by shade Allan meant the warped sheet of nailed crudely on three long slats of wood, also crudely driven into the ground. It was another masterpiece of Nash's. There wasn't much else in the garden, just a low table inbetween the chairs and a strip of concrete just under the window, lining the front edge of the garden. It glistened a dark grey from last night's rain, lighter patches peeking through as the sun baked the ground.

Breakfast was nothing fancy, just eggs, bacon and tea. Allan brewed the putrid water that was coffee, Nash took it black, Allan had never understood the logic behind drinking the bitter drink, which also somehow awarded you with the title of maturity. Clearly tea was the more sophisticated choice. Allan shook his head, as if physically flinging away the thoughts, even now he was prone to swerving off down random tangents, in a situation as... intriguing as this one.

He placed a plate in front of Nash, Allan could tell he was not as comfortable as he made out to be. Although Nash lounged over the chair, legs splayed, fingers drumming on the table: a picture of nonchalance, Nash's expression was just a little too strained to be truly indifferent, his fingers hitting the table with just a bit too much force to be natural. He was a painting of his casual arrogance, life like, but a painting never the less. A tail flicked in approval somewhere inside Allan, a growl slithered up his throat in affirmation of the sick pleasure Allan derived from switching the tables on Nash.

Allan swallowed it down. 

A muffled cry broke his reprieve, Nash's fingers stilled. Allan flicked his eyes towards the door, this was a strange thrill, two worlds of his colliding, he stood both in front of and in the mirror. Not sparing Nash another glance, Allan made his way outside, his steps a languid stroll. Nash had been Allan's friend for many years, but this was indeed new. Nash didn't know if he enjoyed it, or not.

Lucy startled at the sound of footsteps. She hadn't known what to do earlier, when the perpetually smirking man stepped into the hallway, sans smirk. She hadn't known what do when the two men stood locked in an invisible battle. She still didn't know what to do, as she lay crumpled, a mess of limbs and hair, every part of her singing in pain.

"What are you doing?"

The words were a knife tinged in disgust, slicing into her seeping the emotion into her bloodstream. The man didn't wait for Lucy's response. His tone forming frost on her skin.

"Get up."

Lucy fumbled slowly, trying to slip her hands underneath her.  


Contempt pooled in Allan's gut watching the girl struggle, how weak, how pathetic she was. Weak, pathetic and slow. Too slow. Allan smiled. Reaching down, he pinched the girl 's nipple, yanking it up harshly, jolting her up; she released a short scream. It lingered between them, as Allan held her gaze. Nash had most definitely heard that. 

The girl balanced on her knees, stumbling to her feet, hoping to loosen Allan 's grip. Allan just pulled harder, higher. He looked down, as she scrambled for a place to grab, hands settling on his shirt. She was a sand sculpture mid collapse, Allan saw each crack, saw as more and more of her slipped away. Once again on her toes, the girl seemed but a moment from disintegration. Desperation lined her eyes, her soft mouth open in want, face drenched in agony. Fists clutching at Allan in terror and plea. She was also a warped thing, for even under the terror, the plea anticipation swam in her gold lit eyes. Allan was delighted.

The girl: at his mercy; Nash: listening, desire raptured through Allan, blooming a flower the colour of bruises, of over ripened plums, of Nash's lips, it grew aphyxiating the voice Allan had long since stopped noticing. A cruel curl adorned his mouths at the sound.

A predatory gleam entered his eye.

"Crawl."

Allan understood the the counterintuitive nature of what he told her to do, the utter meaninglessness of the task, yet wasn't that the point? He would thoroughly enjoy her. Allan was looking forward to breaking her again and again.  


The girl moaned as Allan gripped her nipple for a second too long when she began to gently kneel. The effort was in waste, for there was nothing gentle, or contained once she started crawling: her breasts swung lewdly, eyes ablaze.

Allan entered the kitchen very much like he left; cool, unruffled. The only difference was the body that followed. Nash couldn't help but stare. He hadn't really observed her before, with Allan starting a pissing match and all, not that he'd objected, but this wasn't about Nash's dirty laundry. His eyes razed over her, lingering on her generous assets, her bared behind. She followed Allan like a dog on a leash. It felt like a challenge, her presence in the kitchen -- the house -- her suggestive form. It drove home far more effectively than any wink, or innuendo Nash had thrown at Allan, that he indeed had been busy last night. Well, if Clarkey was going parade his lay around like a show pony, Nash couldn't beheld responsible for his actions.  


"That's a mighty fine piece of arse you've got there Clarkey. " Nash whistled, leaning back and ogling at the girl. The words were innocuous in nature, but Nash wielded them as if he meant harm.

Allan stilled across from Nash, a hand on his chair. Deliberately, he looked over the girl now lingering at his feet.

"She is quite delightful isn't she?"

Lucy felt as if she was trapped In a spiral, falling forever further. Hearing the blonde man's words, heat inched up her body. She had thought the kiss at the bar was humiliating, well it was nothing compared to this: both men regarding her form, commenting on her naked arse, her disheveled hair, her raw lips and how well they worked. Each sentence specifically engineered to establish her worth as a whore, as she sat at their feet: the very mongrel Allan had claimed she was the night before.

"-- I'll show you."

"Suck darling."

Lucy obediently opened her mouth as Allan's finger slipped in. She looked over at him, as she sucked on his index, but Allan 's attention was elsewhere. He stated intent at the other man, his expression derisive, eyes taunting. No, this was no outward, clumsy display of aggression, but a more sleeker attack of the concentrated kind. Lucy wasn't quiet sure what was going on, but even she in her lust addled mind sensed a tension between the two.

Her eyes slipped onto gray, blue ones. They were mesmerizing, like the rest of him; here was a beach Lucy wanted to be marooned on. She knew where such thoughts had landed her last time, but Lucy found that she welcomed the consequences. How much further would the man go to remedy her thoughts? Lucy shivered. Feeling her gaze, Nash turned, eyes shuttering at what they beheld. She sucked vigorously at Allan 's finger, lips pert, her eyes: glazed, were lined with silver, as if she would sob for release if only the finger was removed. Heat licked her cheek, her neck, her back; she looked sinful.

Nash wondered what Allan had done to get her to this point. Wondered if he had taken tips from Nash. Sitting was suddenly painful. Nash ripped his eyes away, only to come face to face with Allan.

"She's cold." He deadpanned.

Amusement shone in Allan's eyes. She was so much more than cold. He cupped his chin in his free hand, careful, so careful to not get carried away, he wanted to savour this. After all, Nash was so rarely flustered. It didn't seem so, but to Allan who knew Nash better than he knew himself, it was obvious. Nash didn't like showing any emotion other than those he chose to reveal, he fooled many with his open, spontaneous nature, but Allan knew Nash. He accused Allan of predictability, but in a way he too was guilty. 

Allan allowed a small condescending smile to slip into his face.

"Is she Graham?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So clearly I have trouble sticking to a schedule. I'm trying people, bear with me, I'm determined to overcome this aversion. ;)
> 
> Assholes litter this chapter. Enjoy! <3

Nash frowned, irritated at Allan. Really he was irritated at himself, but conforming to the very nature of humans -- who are oft too proud to realise themselves as the problem -- he claimed Allan as the source of his discomfort. Which was also true, but in a different sense. 

Nash knew he had the upper hand no more, looking at the quietly smug eyes in front of him, the colour of soil after rain, it was obvious who would prevail in this tug of war, but Nash was no stranger to confrontation, or Allan.  


He leaned forward, cocking his head purposefully, a strand of blonde hair settling against his cheek. He chose the blunt route, a bulldozer to Allan's careful scalpel. 

"What exactly are you trying to pull Clarkey?" 

This alone was enough, for there was Allan hesitating a hair's breadth, insignificant, but unsure for a second non-the-less. However, anyone who knew Nash knew he was not a frequent excersizer of control. Why pick and choose the black rings on your target, when you could blow the bloody dart board to pieces? Both were effective, but one was endlessly more amusing for him. And if the splinters buried themselves in other people, that was the price they had to pay for the undeniable pleasure of his company: He was Graham Nash, not a cheapened, illicit drink. He could not be distilled. You either took him straight, or not at all. 

Letting a lupine grin crawl onto his face, Nash purred, "If you want to watch me fuck, while you have a go at yourself, you only need ask Allan."

It was the use of Allan's first name that made the statement as vulgar as it was, for such refined sentiments flowing from Nash"s mouth were no shock otherwise. Still Allan was not impressed. 

He merely looked on, amused contempt tinting his eyes darker. It was a peculiar feeling, being the one in control of a thing such as Nash: he was a fanciful creature stranded in a human body.

Pulling out the finger stuck in the girls mouth, Allan spoke to her, even though his eyes remained on Nash's.

"Love, get under the table if you will."

The girl shivered at the midnight threat in his voice, dangerous indeed. Slowly, she moved positioning herself between the legs of the two men, she faced Allan. 

"Turn around."

Perplexed, Lucy sat still, did he mean for her to allow herself to be given to the other man? She was no stranger to courting two men at once, she was not the type to be tied down, but never in the same week as the other, let alone the same time in the same room. There was something disconcerting about being subservient to two people at once, a troubling sensation that although one could be escaped from, the other would provide a secondary harness; even the mere equation of two against one struck a primal fear in her. The skewed scale of balance tipped ever further in the man's favour. For an object was truly yours when it visited the possession of another, obviously aggregious amongst thier belongings. Her knees brushed Allan's feet, her backside between Nash's outspread legs, her head bent awkwardly to fit the height of the table. Still Lucy hesitated.

"I said. Turn. Around. You weren't modest when you were humping the air like a bitch in heat and you're no more modest now crawling around naked like one."  
He waved a dismissive hand under the table. "Just turn around like the good, little slut you are."

The words dragged up a shame, Lucy thought she had ran out of. It seemed every time she found the bottom of her capacity to feel humiliatation, the man splintered the floor and pushed her ever deeper into a pit thicker than before. They were cruel enough in their disregard to allow her even the smallest of privacies, but worse still they were said in the edged tone of a dissapointed teacher, as if she truly were the idiot child playacting to gain any morsel of attention. The man knew exactly what he was doing. Even the other man choked on a cough.

Biting her lip, she turned, feeling every bit the fool Allan implied she was.

"That's more like it. Edge closer now, don't be shy, just straddle the leg of Nash's chair."

Lucy wrapped her legs around the rounded wooden surface, it was cool against the bundle of nerves between her thighs. She sat crossed legged, head still ducked in an ungainly manner. 

Nash had long since jerked his leg back to allow her room. He looked on, unable to peel his eyes from Allan's, what was the fucker doing? His heart thump, thump, thumped.  


Allan's eyes tracked every flicker on Nash's face, he uncupped his hands, sitting up, seemingly finding what he was looking for. There was no amusement, or smugness on his face as he pressed both hands into the space between them, almost as if they were creatures in of themselves: hunched, ready to pounce.

"Do you want to touch yourself?" 

For a brief moment Nash thought Allan was asking him. He had to clamp down the urge to respond, he did not know this Allan; a pied piper of the sinful. A breathless yes fell from the girl's lips.

"Yes what?"

Lucy did not pause this time.

"Yes please."

Allan simply waited. Eyes dark, dark, dark on Nash.

"Oh please, please, please. Please let me fuck myself on your chair, oh please say yes, oh please."

Crude but effective, Allan thought. He felt a sense of approval wash over him. A sense of accomplishment, he'd trained her afterall, in such a short time. How much further could he push her, could he break her? 

"Well don't hold back on our account."

Nash swallowed.

 

It occured to Lucy as soon as the man spoke, there was no point pretending she had any control. Certainly not over allowing anyone to her body, it would be used as Allan deemed fit, by anyone Allan deemed fit. A small part of her questioned the logic behind the thought, that her own body was not her own, the sanity behind acquiescencing, wholly, control to a stranger. A much larger part did not care. Still, relief flooded her when she realised he had not asked her to explicitly service the blonde man, but a thing at just the edge of her mind whispered that she would have done so if asked, with little trepidation. Would have enjoyed every depraved second.

So when the man made her beg and gave her permission to relieve herself, Lucy cared for nothing else. Trembling she reached for the cylinder of wood, clapsing her hands around the thin pole. Slowly she pressed herself harder onto it, until it slipped partially into her slick core. With a soft groan Lucy began rubbing herself on it, bouncing up and down, her naked flesh slapping onto the floor as she came down once, twice, thrice. Lucy knew what a perverse act she was putting on for the two men, knew she looked worse than any person selling their wares on the corner of the road, but try as she would, she couldn't stop the throbbing of pleasure heightening at the thought. Granted she didn't try too hard. Lucy simply didn't care.  


It was an uncomfortable process to say the least, her head bowed as it were, though it only seemed to entice her further. Moaning louder, Lucy's knuckles were white around the leg of the chair, as she bounced and writhed and humped it enthusiastically: breast occasionally hitting the underside of the seat, head occasionally banging the underside of the table, she groaned louder thinking of how there was someone sitting on the chair she know rode vigorously. Thinking of the man that had commanded such obscenity from her in the first place, not even pretending to treat her with a modicum of decency. She was not a human to him. Just a thing to be used.

Little lightning strikes of pain shot through her bruises, her raw wrist, but instead of slowing, Lucy whined in pain: a high pitched sound, going faster, harder than before. She was an orchestra of lewdity approaching the precipice to her finale. Her one goal to jump. Jump. Jump.

Feeling the impending edge, Lucy pressed her skull painfully into the wood, crushing the leg of the chair to her apex, left hand reaching to maul and twist her nipple, not unlike Allan had before. She broke: a hoarse cry escaping her wet lips, as her body shuddered in pleasure and her gasps littered the air.

Her thoughts were pebbles that clattered onto the kitchen floor. Exhausted, she didn't bother to catch herself as she too slumped amongst them. Eyelashes tickling her cheeks, Lucy closed her eyes, gulping down air, her whole left side plastered to the floor. The morning sun, burned red through her lids.

 

In the relative silence, Allan spoke. His voice, rough and quite, but not lacking ferocity. His gaze had not stirred from it's silent vigil, as if the naked girl performing lewd acts in his kitchen was of no interest to him. 

"If you want to fuck my leftovers Nash, you're welcome." 

The sentence a clear challenge, a clear provocation.  
Nash exercised all his restraint, not daring to look at the girl on the floor, it seemed like defeat to do so. To acknowledge even a hint of desire for her. Something vile swam up in Nash, so Allan thought he could take him on? Ha. Friend, or no, anyone who tried to make a fool of him would learn what exactly lay under his easy smiles and disarming charm. 

Allan sat, ever the collected, imperious man. A cool detachment in on his face, his eyes coruscating, as if Allan had a naked wire running through him -- crackling fatally -- and didn't know how to, or want to contain it for a sentiment as trivial as safety. There was a hook in Nash's chest, it dug in deep, twisting, eliciting a sharp pain, phantom blood seem to spatter his clothes. It wasn't entirely unpleasant.

Taking a deep breath he plastered on a coy tilt to his lips, "Charming Allan, glad to know you spend your free time cheaply imitating me." The words were ugly, his tone uglier. "Not so high and mighty now friend? Does it only take an nondescript whore to change your mind? " Everything that came out of his mouth was wrong, harsh, he could have said he didn't know why he didn't just shut his bloody mouth. But he knew. Winning was always more important to him than sparing feelings. Allan had stepped into the ring, he couldn't expect Nash to hold his punches. Nash flashed a malignant, condescending grin at Allan. 

It was a horrifying thing. 

"Are you just happy that she picked you first," Nash cocked his head, predatory, "unlike all the women before?" He paused, "Unlike your darling Alisa, who discarded you at the first hint of my interest? "

Nash watched Allan eyes dim, a blankness blanketed his gaze. It was a cheap shot, one that had found his mark. He couldn't make himself feel bad.

Hair like sunshine. A weird hiccuping laugh. Veiled mischief in her eyes. That's what the name Alisa mean to him. She had come from France a few months before they met. Confident, wild, brutish. She was everything he was not. It made sense to everyone that Nash would be her preferred pick, really Allan should not have been enamoured with a girl like her; loud, indignant. At first he hadn't been. She hung around with him and Nash, vibrant in her existence, insistently curious in theirs, only as alluring as the sun, he was keen to bask in her warmth, but had no desire to see her up close. It was the Alisa in between those moments that had reeled him in. The one who would chew the inside of her cheek, thinking through her words before answering, the one who would adopt the subtlest of frowns when presented with a grammatical error in conversation, the one he had found teaching herself piano in the late hours of the night: determined, patient and achingly lovely in the shadows of his apartment. He had come to love her, come to adore the loudness and thoughtfulness alike. He had not belived in love, yet here she was. So he had picked her. He had been so surprised to find that she had picked him back. Not that it had mattered. Two month later he had found her in bed with Nash. 

Turns out she had picked him too.

It was an old wound that occasionally gave him trouble, like a wrecked knee, a ghost of the ache really. Alisa he could learn to dismiss, he just couldn't understood why Nash had gone after her. Nash his best friend, Nash whom he had told of his affection for her. Nash who had no doubt guessed at the depth of his feelings. That betrayal had been harder to stomach, but Allan was Allan and Nash was Nash and really there was no doubt that they would stay friends. As they had, and yet, here they were once again, with Nash rubbing salt in the scabbed skin. Willing to do anything, no matter how underhanded to stay on top. Was he surprised.

Realizing he had not spoken for a while Allan stood up, old fury and pain rising up in him. He knew this is what Nash wanted, but the rage was inconsolable. 

"You must really be off balance if you're using such desperate tactics Nash." The sentence was quiet, vicious. A dangerous edge creeped into Allan's voice. Nash merely shrugged in response, as if to say 'it worked, didn't it?'  


Ignoring his irreverence, Allan grabbed a kitchen towel, flinging it at the girl, shoulders tight.

"Clean yourself up and go sleep on the sofa in the living room."

Each word was clipped. His eyes promising brutality.  


Both men watched as the girl picked up the rag, her hands trembling, the morning light illuminating half her body, as it spilt in through the glass door leading to the garden. Dust notes swirled, her breath hitched, she crawled out.

"Aren't you going to get her a blanket?" Allan mocked, an eyebrow raised..He didn't need to let Nash know that he had calculated right, had effectively severed through Allan's control. He had not intended to cross lines, yet Allan seethed silently, aching to harm Nash as deeply as Nash had harmed him.

Nash blinked. Oh, he had not won. Not by a long shot. All he really had was blunt Allan's blade, rendering it jagged and cruel for the next swing. For that was Allan giving Nash a slow, serpentine smile, there was nothing handsome in his face and even though the the sun beamed, there was nothing blacker than his eyes. Ugly this had turned so very ugly.

Allan stalked closer, folded his arms.

"Why Nash, trouble standing?" 

The contemptuous look he levelled Nash, made him want to shatter Allan's front teeth. Fucker. Bloody bastard. Fucking bloody cunt of a bastard. Hands braced in a swift motion, Nash rose, looming. Allan merely looked to where his trousers strained, emitting a soft, unimpressed laugh. Anger loosening his tongue.

"What's wrong Nash? Why are you getting so riled up? Embarrassed by your hard on? Wait -- don't tell me you thought I was upset by your pathetic attempt at grappling for superemacy."

Allan leaned forward, a grim satisfaction on his face, his mouth a tight, hard line, his eyes glittering maliciously. Nash knew, he knew that what Allan was going to say next would snap some tether deep in him. He knew because Allan so rarely went for the throat, but when he did... And right now Allan seemed inclined to do just that. Too far, Nash has had pushed too far.

Allan leant forward, arms slackening until his breath hit Nash's skin, warm and steady; deceptive. The smallest of smirks tilted his lips; terrifying. Allan spoke, his words so, so quiet. A careless, calculated motion slipping a thin knife in between his ribs. 

"Did you bring up the topic of being chosen Graham, because no matter how old you are, no matter what you do, or who you become you can never forget how you're father chose theiving over you?"

A roaring filled Nash's head. A thunderous wave that smothered coherent thought. 

Nash's gaze slid over Allan's face, landing on the counter behind him. He had never realised how many of their dishes were chipped, he counted them on the stand besides the sink. A stray cloud darkened the room, the glare of the pale dishes in the sun dimming. There were so many chips.

Allan shrugged, words disdainful. Hands coated with Nash's life blood. A satisfied gleam in his eyes. This was not an Allan he knew; remorseless, ruthless. "I'm sorry mine cared, if that's what you want."

Nothing registered in Nash's mind, nothing flickered, nothing beyond the need to halt the poison spewing from Allan's lips. Halt it before it paralysed his already struggling heart. He had to make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. A piercing whine sliced through him.

Nash struck.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting people. Hope you don't hate me for the delay. Writer's block is a bitch. ;) <3

Nash had moved a lifetime ago. A millennia had passed in the infinity since his body had jerked forward in a last ditch attempt to usurp the web Allan had draped over him, tightening the silken strands to a glittering noose around his venerable neck with expert ease. 

Perhaps he should feel some remorse, some trepidation, some guilt. Especially as Nash looked at him, frozen in time: devastation in his eyes; lips peeled back in a hideous snarl, his hair gold-brown in the muted light, the strands aloft on the wind of his fury. The veins in his neck prominent; green forks of lightning trapped under his skin. It was beautiful really, a river of blood beating at flesh to be let. out. let. out.  
A poignant dissonance indeed.

Time stuttered back into gear, Allan let a knife edged smile dance on his lips just as a fist slammed into his stomach. Oxygen evacuated his lungs to make room for the pain. Allan let out a breathless laugh, it skittered over Nash's trembling muscles, up his arm, into his ears, weaving through nerves and thought alike until it reached common sense and lapped it dry. There wasn't much to drink up.

Still bent, Allan heard Nash growl, before a thousand needles speared his scalp as Nash pulled him up. It was an inelegant manoeuvre to say the least. His sharp inhale mingled with the ragged breathing of two, tinged with affliction of varying kind. He stared into eyes like a storm, a pale cyan. Allan had forgotten the shards of grey that were speckled in them. The realisation brought up a creeping ache in him, but like the tide it came and went; dragging all detritus of realisation back before the evidence could be examined for a crime.

Something skin to panic flickered in Nash's eyes, a faulty lighthouse---

He swallowed----

His fingers twitched---

Allan's lips parted---

Nash kissed Allan. Nash kissed Allan. Nash kissed Allan.

All thoughts eddied from Allan's mind as he marvelled at the softness of Nash's lips. He kissed Allan as if forcing back words into Allan's throat, his movements desperate, sure, seemingly in belief that if only he could kiss Allan long enough, the cutting words he would no doubt wield against Nash would dissipate on his tongue like sugar. Leaving nothing, but the undiluted sickly sweetness in their joined mouths. No repercussions besides elevated oxygen levels in their blood.

He kissed Allan as if he knew demise leered over their shoulder and wished nothing more than to choose the weapon to deliver him into it's awaiting arms. It seemed the weapon he had chosen was Allan.  
Allan's hands hung limp, as Nash continued ravaging his mouth, pressing a tongue into the space, sweeping the roof, sweeping everything away, hell bent on leaving Allan stranded with nothing but a slow, excruciating end to keep him company. A dark gift for the dark man.

Nash's fingers twisted in Allan's hair, wrenching his head further up to gain access, slamming Allan's back into the counter. His spine sang in pain. Allan sang back, a single low tenor. It was as if Nash had outrun a leash, his other hand cupped Allan's neck, the pads of his fingers pressing into Allan's airway, nails scraping down his neck, red searing lines branding into pale skin; a claiming before the collar of denial and restraint leashed him again. 

Starting at the fiery sensation, Allan gripped Nash's hips, savouring the sturdiness under his fingers, the material of the trousers seeming inconsequential. He groaned as Nash coaxed a guttural sound from his mouth. A shudder racked the man holding Allan.

Nash didn't know what he was doing. Didn't know why he was doing it. Yet, it didn't matter, not to him. Not as a groan from Allan -- bloody hell Allan! -- shuddered through him. All he knew was that in this moment with his hand in Allan's hair, his mouth on Allan's, there were no razors slipping from Allan's lips, there were no punches tearing from his own fists. The bridges to his mind had been barbed shut, he was no more than a tourist frowning at the inconvenience, stood mildly dejected besides the wooden posts that anchored the rickety passage to the ground outside his thoughts. He would find another site to visit, the loss didn't strike him as important. Couldn't strike him as important.

So when Allan's fingers dug into his skin, slipping under his shirt, when the jolt of icy skin struck him, he didn't think, didn't bother processing anything. Nash merely used the cool touch as an anchor and threw himself into the turmoil that was Allan Clarke. Scratching, roving his hands over the hard body under him, so far from the usual supple curves and long hair he so frequently held. This was another needle in his skin really, another liquid in his veins, roaring with fury. All the more enticing for it's illicit nature. 

Though like other substances, it burst fireworks of reality in his minds when he least expected, least wanted. The colours tainting the sky of his mind with words he would rather forget, with memories he would rather not relive, the worst of them falling as embers to sizzle on his skin. Eroding through flesh. Exposing the bone.

Oh how he abhorred the ambiguous nature of these bloody things.

He hissed onto Allan's compliant mouth, ripping himself away, twisting, falling. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Trembling hands clenched at his sides, he looked at Allan, breathing unsteady. The dark haired man still leaning back, neck tilted up, eyes closed, lashes fluttering against his cheeks, onyx wings on a dying bird. Mouth open, dragging in air. Hands still outstretched, as if nailed to the ghost of Nash's silhouette; insistent. His face was curiously blank, his eyebrows two straight lines, belying nothing. 

Slowly, so slowly did he dragged his eyes open, hands dropping like shed feathers; hesitant, tranquil, unfettered, in a smooth arch. At the sight of Allan's gaze, Nash staggered, the force of the look unyielding.

Hatred.

It was pure loathing that shone in Allan, rendering his dark eyes wholly black, bottomless. It was an abhorrence sharpened and nourished through familiarity. Brought into being by a repeated ritual of practice and perfection. His stare brittle, hard and oozing hatred like an oil, pooling from his eyes like a viscous mist, contorting the face Nash knew with ugliness. Such glittering, endless ugliness. There was nothing attractive about Allan, nothing but loathing like shadowed whips cracking from his being, razing Nash's skin to strips; a warning, a vengeance, a claiming of their very own.

His lips curved up, unhurried, deliberate. It was a horrendous thing. More of an attack than a smile, harrowing in it's ghastliness. Screams and last words echoed it's birth. The cold smiles Nash had received till now were warm compared to this.

Nash blinked. Bile stung his throat. 

Allan took but a step.

Nash flinched. He turned. He fled.

He strode right out of the kitchen, the hallway, the stairs, the girl slumped on them, the world but a blur of colour, a mosaic of browns and reds and white, then blues and greens and greys as his legs wolfed down the cobbled pathway and rushed out a sun warmed gate. The front door shutting with an air of finality, a silent observer exhaling in relief.

 

Her knees hurt. Her arms hurt. Everything hurt. Her eyes barely stayed open. Still Lucy crawled out of the kitchen like she had been told to do, but instead of turning into the living room as commanded, she found herself face to face with a set of stairs. Nothing had seemed so daunting. She knew she had not received permission to venture upstairs, but Lucy had a predicament: her bladder. It was screeching far louder than any other pain, or order, she had to find relief. Still, Lucy swayed, the distance to the top a veritable kilometre. Her muscles trembled at the thought of more labour, yet up she would go, for she had seen no such room downstairs. 

Murmuring like a fresh stream rose from the room she had just vacated, rinsing her with dread. She should go before they finished. Should go now. Biting her lip to staunch any stray cries, she reached up a hand and set it on the carpeted steps, it was incongruously soft. As if someone cleaned it often enough. Although, she didn’t why such a thought struck her. Cleaning wasn’t her strong suit. Laughter, tinged with hysteria bubbled up her throat, an effervescent champagne. It fizzled in her stomach as she swallowed it down, clamping her mouth shut. Upstairs. Right.

Leaning both hands on the third step up, perhaps fourth, counting was a tremendous effort, she shuffled her knees onto the first, repeating the movements as she climbed higher and higher. It didn't strike Lucy as an option to walk, she had been given a directive and follow she must. There was no room in her mind for dissent, the lack of sleep and pain culminated into a numbing elixir that lapped at her mind, drowning out all other thoughts. Burying them under the silt of the man’s control. It was all she could do to keep the one goal in mind: upstairs. Perhaps, if she did get caught, the punishment wouldn’t be so severe, she was crawling after all. 

Good little slut.

The words clanged in her brain, echoing in the water logged chamber. Lucy moaned quietly, letting them press into the filigree of her mind like permanent ink. She acknowledged them, accepted them, craved them even. Here, in the very top of a stranger’s stairway, there was no one but herself to hide from.

The morning sun seemed to assault her eyes as it streamed onto her shoulder, her left eye bearing the brunt of it as it gleamed, bouncing off white tiles. She nearly sagged with relief, never had she thought she'd be so glad to see a bathroom, for there were indeed tears stinging her eyes. Scrambling inside Lucy didn’t so much as feel the threshold change, as she grabbed the sink, slumped onto the porcelain seat and finally, finally let her bladder go.

The pressure had abated, leaving her mind a little clearer, yet as soon as she stepped out, Lucy sunk to her knees, once again crawling the short distance to the stairs. Moving her legs to dangle off the top step. How was it still morning? It seemed an age had passed since she was unstrung from the coat racks, an age since she found pleasure at the behest of a table. The thought churned no embarrassment in her, not now, for fatigue had crept in her bones; it pressed out from behind her eyed, it sat on her lids weighing them down.

A wayward thought flitted to a branch of her consciousness: if she fell forward, it was a long way down. The thought hopped away: a concern for a later time. Lucy sighed, content. Despite her aching limbs, her numb mind, no urgency plagued her body. The realisation was a mercy. No, she wouldn't mind laying head down at all. The ground, heated to a delicious warmth seemed to beckon to her. Dazedly, Lucy shuffled back. Just a moment, she would close her eyes for but a moment.

Her lids were nearly shut, when a distant bang sounded -- as if a body had been slammed into something, Lucy bolted up her heartbeat scampering -- perhaps it was the counter, for a faint rattling echoed the heels of the firsts noise.

Down the stairs. She should at least make it down the stairs. She could explain that away, her presence on the landing would be more cumbersome. Just to the bottom, she promised herself, rallying her body, her mind, coaxing them into action, as if they no longer belonged to her. Lucy supposed they didn't, not really. Whimpering at the effort, she nudged towards the stairs, slipping down them in a loud thump  
thump  
thump. 

Lucy winced at the noise, winced at the pangs of torment that sluiced up her behind. Allan had not held back last night. Reaching the bottom, she didn't bother sitting up, her energy well and truly spent. Lucy did not fight as darkness swept in; swift and sure, whisking her off to sleep.

 

Allan let Nash go. He had other things to do than baby him. Other objects to toy with, to use as he willed.  
For a moment, when Nash had grabbed him, had put his lips on Allan, Allan had frozen. Confined in the remnants of another time, another him. So unexpected, that resurgence -- so curious. No matter. He had more intriguing things to ponder than a trampled past. 

Pushing off the marble surface, Allan lifted his shirt, frowning at the spreading bruise. A cloud of purple; blue, lined with a dash of green. He supposed it would bleed into green and yellow soon enough. A glimmer of a memory painted his vision; another bruise on pale skin; a moonlit room, harried breaths; a glinting object besides an upturned face. Allan brushed it aside, like the remnants of a midnight fog. Clicking his tongue, Allan left the fabric cover his abdomen once more. 

Straightening, he prowled out of the room, grabbing a slice of bacon left abandoned on the table, greasy in his fingers as he popped it into his mouth. It was cold, but satisfactory he supposed. About to turn into the living room, a glimpse of movement caught his eye, halting him. Allan turned, spying the girl, draped indelicately on the last steps, her chest lifting and falling to the sound of her silent breaths. Just as he’d hoped. She had indeed disobeyed his orders to go straight to the sofa and sleep. A foolish requirement really, no one could hold out so long, he would have done the same if he were in her shoes. But he wasn't. A dark emotion flitted across his face. 

No, he wasn't. 

However she was, and disobedience, must be addressed. Still she was no good to him useless, so he picked her up and set her in the living room. The girl instantly curled over, knees tucked to her chin, shivers wracking her frame, and did not so much as stir her lashes. Allan’s face furrowed with mild displeasure. Tapping once, twice on his thigh, he went and procured two thick blankets, tucking them over the girl. She would be no good to him dead, in fact it might even be a nuisance to deal with the police. They were rather irritating at times. 

Satisfied with his work, Allan made his way back to the kitchen, he had never gotten round to breakfast. Heating up both plates for himself, Allan dug in. An adequate cook indeed.

 

Nash walked and walked and walked. He didn’t really know where he was going, but no matter how far he went, how his feet ached, he couldn’t outrun the look in Allan’s eyes, the words in Allan’s mouth. They were everywhere he looked. In the pleasant smile of the elderly across this road, on the scowling mouth of a mother down the street, under the upturned hands of the homeless boy around the corner. The sun's kiss was a vile, slithering thing on his face. His feet were torn to shreds, Nash had forgotten to wear shoes in his haste, his socks in tatters. Nash savoured the sting. It was the only thing that he allowed himself to feel. How had it turned so fast? Was it not he who had struck Allan ruthlessly? Was it not Allan who had been but a step from the edge? Was it not so? 

Gritting his teeth, he sped up, how dare Clarke talk about his father. That rutting coward. Underhanded that’s what it was. Little, old Clarkey wasn’t allowed to use such methods, that was his job. It wasn’t bloody fair when they both played dirty! It evened out the field goddamn! Didn’t the stupid git know anything? What an absolute cock up. Ridiculous. Bloody ridiculous! On top of that, he had run away, Nash slammed to a stop, a disastrous bang on the piano, he -- Graham Nash -- had run away. This was outrageous, Clarkey, of all people, had driven him out.

A lecherous grin shaped Nash’s lips as a thought struck him, though no doubt Allan must be reeling from the kiss. Not that it was a problem for Nash, he had tasted a few men in his day, unlike straight laced Clarkey who had never even entertained the idea. It had barely fazed Nash, but Clarkey... he was probably out of his mind right about now. 

The words swung hollow, ringing falsely, a superficial tinkling on a fraying rope. Nash paid it no mind. Oh yes, he must be flailing around in confusion. 

Glee surged under Nash’s skin, dampening only as the Allan’s words once again emerged, rasping with the desolate leaves that scraped the gritty ground around him. He would make Clarkey pay for that too, though he supposed his punch had been effective enough. Nash refused to allow guilt an inch.

Allan had deserved it. He knew Nash was the one who crossed boundaries, it was as much a part of him as his junior. It wasn’t a cause for surprise. Was it Nash’s fault the thing was insatiable? Of course not. It was after all Clarkey’s responsibility, his duty even, to bear the brunt of it as a good mate should. Bloody idiot getting under his skin. What would he be without Nash anyway? They were a duo for a reason. He'd set him straight. Nash would remind him, since he’s so clearly forgotten. 

Nash nodded to himself sharply, swinging around.  
Also: the girl, what was he doing with her? In front of Nash even! What a scoundrel Clarkey was becoming. Maybe Nash would fuck her just to put him in his place. Let’s see then if he looked at Nash with such hatred, no this girl would be first in the line of fire, first to be discarded. Nash was Allan’s mate after all. No doubt about it. Anyway, it's not as if Nash had run, he’d merely removed himself from a volatile situation. For Clarkey’s sake. Yeah, he had been ready to pummel the man, but he still managed to wrest away control from his rage. Which he should add was only enticed because Allan had brought up his father. Could other man claim as such? Could another woman? No, he should think not.  
Despite it all, if Clarkey decided on a round two, Nash would not hold back this time. This time he’d finish what he had started, see how well Mr. I-just-dropped-my-sac reacted then. 

Satisfied with the result of his internal monologue, Nash began whistling jauntily as he approached the woman, and child, he had passed not long ago. He flicked his eyes over her form. He’d bet a good bunch, she had a few good goes in her, pity he wasn’t inclined to linger. She was resplendent in a crisp blue dress that hugged her generous assets, the neckline scooping up her wares and setting them on display. A pretty feminine thing, with soft brown curls skimming her waist, the dress tapered there by a white gleaming belt. Pity indeed.

Pulling out his most charming smile, Nash cleared his throat, “Excuse me ma’am, would you suppose you could point me in the right detection?” ,a deprecating shrug, “I get lost so easily.” 

The woman looked up from where she hissed at the boy, who was aged somewhere between 8 and 15. Children stopped being distinguishable above 8 to Nash, they all had the same indignant look to them, as if no one, but them had been wronged so atrociously in the history of mankind. Self obsessed urchins. Some never even deigned to grow out of it. He should know after all, being a former self obsessed urchin and current self obsessed treasure.

She blinked, her mouth forming an oh and then a different kind of oh as her gaze landed on his bloodied feet.

“Are you alright? What ever happened to your feet?”

Her voice carried a distinct edge of wariness, her fingers tightened around the boy’s shoulder; he had the most ordinary of eyes: brown. How boring. Nash gave the child a pointed look, who indeed had his mother’s nose, perhaps she was a sister? It was entirely possible.

“You know how some... appointments go. Can't please ‘em all eh? Especially when the husband comes back early.” Nash winked.

“Oh Sir,” the woman tittered, a blush staining her cheeks, all wariness vanishing, as if it were mist, and Nash the sun, one it had no hopes of outlasting.

The child squirmed, bored by the delay. 

“Mama?”

“Hush now, how many times have I told you not to interrupt mama?”

Mother it was then. Not that it had ever been a deterrent for Nash. She smiled abashedly, as if saying ‘you know how it is.’ Nash nodded back, the portrait of studied understanding.

“You were saying Mr...”

“Graham.”

“Mr. Graham.”

“Just Graham.”

The woman batted her lashes, inclining her head demurely. “What can I do for you then Graham?”

Nash grinned, coaxing from the woman, the details that would lead him out of the unfamiliar neighbourhood. He left her a few minutes later with a roguish grin and pink cheeks. Nash had no time to stay.

Pity indeed.


End file.
